


Waltz

by ghostchibi



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Additional Warnings in Chapter Notes, Blind Betrayal spoilers, Community: falloutkinkmeme, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostchibi/pseuds/ghostchibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danse's life has come to revolve mostly around three people now; Preston Garvey, Colonel of the Minutemen, John Hancock, mayor of Goodneighbor, and Nick Valentine, synth detective. He's still alive, somehow, and maybe things are getting a little bit better with their help.</p><p>Or maybe they're complicating things, of no fault of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindness, Or Maybe Concern

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from the Fallout Kink Meme [here](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=17895111#t17895111).
> 
> OP wanted polyamory with Danse, and I had to oblige.

Preston worries.  
  
He places a tray on the side table by Danse's door, a bowl of radstag stew and a bottle of Nuka-Cola. Sole hasn't been around for the past week, and Preston finds himself feeling obliged to fill Sole's place as Danse's caretaker in their absence. Certainly, it would anger Sole for them to return only to find Danse left alone and suffering, but Preston feels much more than just a fear of Sole's rage.  
  
He's worried for Danse. He worries when he sets the tray out and returns the next day, finding the food untouched. Sometimes the bottle of soda or water is half-empty. Preston has thought hard about how to get Danse to eat, short of wrestling food down his throat, and that's something that he refuses to do.  
  
Today, he's going to try something new.  
  
"Danse?" he asks, knocking on the door lightly. He can hear the shifting of bedsheets and the creak of a mattress from the other side. "Can you open the door? I have something for you."  
  
There's silence for a while, and Preston wonders if he's being ignored, when the door opens slowly. Danse's hair is a mess, sticking up in interesting directions, and his eyes are still closed as he leans against the doorframe.  
  
"Hello, Preston."  
  
"Hello, Danse. I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry."  
  
Preston lifts the tray a little to show him, and Danse eyes it with weary resignation.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm not hungry."  
  
"Danse, you haven't eaten anything in two days."  
  
That seems to shock him, just a little bit. Danse blinks, bewildered, and looks at Preston in confusion.  
  
"You might feel better if you have something. Even just a little bit."  
  
Preston smiles warmly at Danse, waiting for an answer. He's hoping that Danse will agree, and when the man nods and opens the door a little wider to take the tray from Preston's hands, Preston beams.  
  
"I can sit with you, if you'd like?" he asks, standing at the doorway. It's open wide enough for him to let himself in, but Danse has been jumpy about personal space lately and the last thing Preston wants is to make him uncomfortable. Danse thinks for a moment, then nods.  
  
They sit on the bed side by side, Danse balancing the tray across his lap and Preston reaching for the bottle to open it for him. The cap comes off with a quiet pop, and he offers it to Danse.  
  
"Sometimes it helps to start with something with more flavor. Makes it all go down a little easier."  
  
Danse doesn't ask him how he knows that, but he takes Preston's word for it anyway.

* * *

 

Hancock worries.  
  
On one hand, not hearing Danse call him a chem fiend is good. On the other hand, not hearing Danse call him a chem fiend is concerning. Hancock knows that Sole has been trying to change Danse's way of thinking ever since the two had met, but it had hardly any noticeable effects until after the rude awakening of Danse's true nature.  
  
It's not Sole's efforts that have caused this change though. It's Danse's own despondency. He doesn't react at all when Hancock saunters into his field of vision, doesn't make any remarks about the Jet that Hancock huffs and blows out from between his now-missing lips. Maybe he just doesn't care anymore. Or maybe he doesn't think he has any right to complain, given the bottles of wine and whiskey stashed under his bed where Danse thinks nobody can see.  
  
(Hancock can see. Hancock knows. Maybe it's the Mentats giving him an edge, but Hancock absolutely knows.)  
  
And of course, Danse drinks that stash under his bed, and he gets wildly drunk. Hancock stares down at the sheer amount of empty bottles scattered across the floor, almost crushing one underfoot as he attempts to maneuver closer to Danse. He's sitting with his back against the bed frame, one arm on top of the mattress, the other lying limply by his side. Hancock is almost afraid that he drank himself unconscious, when he hears a hiccup.  
  
"You're going to drink yourself to death," Hancock mutters, attempting to lift Danse up to at least get him onto the bed. But Danse is much heavier than him, and that attempt goes nowhere.  
  
Danse laughs and starts to say something in response.  
  
"No making jokes about that," Hancock snaps. "How much did you drink?"  
  
He eventually coaxes the truth out of Danse, and is relieved to find that most of the bottles on the floor were already empty before today. So he hasn't given himself alcohol poisoning, but he's bound to wake up the next morning with a terrible hangover. Not that there's much that can be done about that, other than getting Danse to drink some water.  
  
"I feel sick," Danse admits as Hancock finally gets him back onto the bed.  
  
"I'm not surprised. This might help."  
  
He accepts the can of water held out to him and takes slow sips, Hancock rubbing his back. They're silent, save for Danse's slightly heavier breathing and swallowing. Once the can is empty, Hancock takes it from Danse's hands. He ends up tossing it away hastily though when Danse attempts to lie down and nearly slips off the side of the mattress.  
  
"Let me help, big guy. Hey, c'mon-"  
  
And with a little bit of maneuvering, Danse finally gets down on his back, staring up at Hancock. He blinks, bleary-eyed, one hand still firmly gripping the front of Hancock's jacket where he'd latched on to stabilize himself.  
  
"Why... are you being so nice to me?"  
  
It's not a question that Hancock is expecting. Or maybe he is, because it's a question that was bound to be asked eventually. Hancock shakes his head and carefully untangles Danse's fingers, placing his hand back down on top of his chest.  
  
"Because you deserve a hell of a lot more than what you've gotten," is what Hancock can come up with at the moment that won't cause Danse to argue.

* * *

 

Nick worries.  
  
He wonders if idleness is making things worse for Danse; with nothing to do, he has all the time in the world to sit and think. And clearly, sitting and thinking is doing him no favors. Sole is out again, unable to help Nick with his cases, and Nick isn't so sure about taking on the next one alone. It's a good enough reason to ask. It won't sound suspicious this way.  
  
Danse raises an eyebrow when Nick approaches him about it. All he needs to do is be present in the room and look slightly intimidating. There's also the possibility that guns might be drawn, but Nick doubts it.  
  
"Sole could-"  
  
"Sole's out. This is somewhat time-sensitive."  
  
Danse seems hesitant still. Nick shrugs, and decides that at this point he's just pressuring Danse into something he doesn't want to do. He's about to excuse himself when Danse reaches out to him, hand hovering in the air, before he draws it back to his side.  
  
"I'll do it."  
  
"You sure? You don't have to."  
  
"No. If you need help, I'll do it."  
  
And so that's how Danse ends up in Nick's office, leaning against the wall with his mouth and nose covered with one of Sole's kerchiefs (just in case, because the thought of being recognized by the wrong people still makes his heart jump in his chest). Nick assures him that he doesn't have to do much other than look like he could snap a man in half, which apparently he already has down pat.  
  
The client that comes to Nick seems rather bent out of shape. He shouts for a while at Nick, while Nick continues to smoke with a stoic expression. Danse takes the opportunity to figure out the best way to throw the man out of the office, should the need arise.  
  
And then there's a fist flying at Nick's face. Danse reacts immediately, grabbing the man from behind and looping his arms under the man's so that he's yanked backwards, shoulders pinned against Danse's own. The man flails for a moment, attempting to free himself, but Danse has a firm grip on him.  
  
"I would suggest that you calm down," Danse mutters. "Before you do something that you will regret."  
  
"Let me go, you brainless meathead-"  
  
"Now, don't go insulting my assistant. He's only doing his job. Rather well, actually," Nick says, and smiles at Danse. It's completely honest, and Danse blinks at Nick before nervously smiling back.  
  
"If you've calmed down now, we can talk this over further. Maybe there are more clues that you could help me find. I hope you haven't been hiding anything from me, because that means I can't help you as well as I could otherwise."  
  
Nick nods to Danse, and Danse carefully lets the man go. He glares at Danse, rubbing his shoulders, but Danse simply returns to his spot and watches the rest of the exchange.  
  
The door closes a bit too loudly when the man finally leaves, but other than that he causes no other ruckus. Danse watches the man until he's out of the room, before tugging the kerchief down to rest around his neck.  
  
"Is that a regular occurence?" he asks, and Nick shakes his head.  
  
"There's been rumors floating about that he tends to get physical when he's angry," he replies, taking a drag on a cigarette. "I wanted to make sure it didn't get that far. I was hoping that your presence alone would dissuade him from it, but apparently not. Thank you for the help, though."  
  
Smoke leaks from the various holes in Nick's skin, curling out from his neck and his cheeks. Danse wonders why he keeps up the habit, considering how it does absolutely nothing for Nick. It's not like Hancock, who is clearly an addict (of that, and a great deal of other things), or Cait, who uses it to keep from relapsing. But then again, Danse himself doesn't really need to smoke either. He gets no cravings, like how Sole had once described after a particularly stressful day. And yet he finds himself reaching for a cigarette himself, pocketing the packet and digging in his other pocket for a lighter.  
  
"Here, partner."  
  
Danse looks up to find Nick in front of him, holding his cigarette out, offering to light Danse's with the burning end of his. It takes a little bit more effort than lighting it with a lighter, but the paper burns red and Danse hums his thanks before inhaling.  
  
Later, when he goes to dispose of the cigarette, Danse realizes that Nick had called him "partner."


	2. Wallow In Contentedness And Alcoholic Apathy

Danse is drunk again.  
  
Well, perhaps it's closer to being tipsy than being drunk. There's a pleasant buzz that makes him grin as Hancock attempts to reach for his tin of Mentats only to send it sliding onto the floor, rather than frown like he might usually do. Preston and Piper both have drinks, but don't seem to be quite as drunk as the rest of them.  
  
The rest of them, in this case, consists of himself, Hancock, Cait, and MacCready. Curie is nowhere to be found, and so is X6. Deacon is gone, having headed out with Sole. Strong is outside smashing wood or something, given the amount of noise he's creating. Dogmeat has his head resting on Preston's knee, panting happily as he's fed little bits of dried jerky.  
  
Eventually Cait and MacCready get into some sort of argument, which evolves into a competition, and all the attention is on those two while Danse and Hancock sit side by side on the couch. Hancock has finally pried open the top on his tin, and chews with an expression that seems almost thoughtful if it isn't for the fact that he's actually grinding his teeth against mind-altering drugs.  
  
Maybe he is deep in thought, considering that he's chewing on Mentats.  
  
"Where's Valentine?" Danse finally asks, realizing that the synth is missing. Sole is going to kick all of their asses when they get back for messing up the common house like this.  
  
"Work," Hancock answers, and although it's short, it's not unfriendly or curt. He mumbles something about Nicky being too busy, or something along those lines. Danse can't quite tell.  
  
At some point, Danse ends up sideways on the couch with his head in Hancock's lap.  
  
He's not sure exactly when it happened, or how, or why, but Hancock blows out another hit of Jet fumes from his mouth (thoughtfully directed away from Danse), the inhaler resting on the arm of the couch right above Danse's head. Normally, he would say something, but he's too drunk to care. He would also normally be completely alarmed at the position he's in at the moment, but again, too drunk to care. Hancock seems to be the same way, seeing that he's letting Danse lay down in his lap at all.  
  
"Does that taste like anything?" Danse asks out of curiosity. He reaches up to blindly grab at the empty inhaler, examining the case when Hancock hands it to him as he almost knocks it away with his wrist.  
  
"Nope. Well, kinda? But mostly nothing. Tastes a little like medicine," Hancock replies, shrugging. "But you don't really taste it to enjoy it."  
  
"Clearly not," Danse deadpans.  
  
"Curious?"  
  
"Not nearly enough to try it."  
  
He may be drunk, but his aversion to drugs is still very much at the front of his mind. Hancock chuckles and takes the inhaler from Danse, tossing it away at a trashcan. It misses by at least three feet.  
  
"That stuff's potent, but it's weak on ghouls. Don't get quite the high from it like I used to."  
  
Danse doesn't ask what he means by that. He just enjoys this moment of lying down, fingers drumming against his belly while in the background, Cait and MacCready make the strangest noises he's ever heard human beings make.  
  
"...are they murdering each other?" Danse finally asks, craning his head to look. Hancock can't move thanks to Danse pinning him in place, and Danse can't move thanks to his desire to stay prone.  
  
"More like Cait is murdering MacCready, if that's what's happening," Hancock laughs. "Oh, there goes his hat. Sounds like they're having fun."  
  
Danse isn't sure that the noises he's hearing would qualify as fun. However, Danse is fairly certain that he just saw MacCready's duster go flying past the doorway as well.  
  
"I think I would prefer to stay here," he says. Hancock grins down at him, and he quickly amends his statement. "I mean- in this room, rather. Not necessarily in this position."  
  
"You haven't moved at all in the last ten minutes," Hancock teases. "Something you'd like to tell me, big guy?"  
  
"No."

Preston pokes his head back into the room to check on them, and his face goes a bit red.  
  
"Ah, are- doing okay?" It's rare to hear Preston's speech falter like this. Hancock shrugs. Danse nods, and Hancock can see that Danse looks a little more flushed than he did before. "Oh, okay. Um. Good."  
  
And then the Minuteman is gone, presumably back to trying to stop Cait and MacCready from completing their ritualistic murder ceremony, or whatever the hell they're up to.  
  
"You like him."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"You ever gonna tell him?"  
  
"Hancock?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Shut up before I fall asleep on you," Danse threatens, and pillows one arm under his head across Hancock's legs. He's effectively trapped Hancock in place, unless Hancock dumps him onto the floor, which he knows he won't.  
  
He does end up falling asleep on Hancock's legs, and the next morning everyone in the common house is awakened by what sounds like a foghorn.  
  
There are several groans and one near-shriek. Danse claps his hands over his ears to block out the noise, his head feeling as if he's just put it through the wall. Sole stands in the doorway, Deacon sporting a wicked grin behind them. Their Pip-Boy is held up, and a finger hovers over a button.  
  
"Naughty, destructive children get woken up by the death horn!" they announce, much too loud for comfort. Danse swears and attempts to sit up, only to elbow Hancock in the ribs on accident.  
  
"Sorry-"  
  
"It's fine, I'm already in a great deal of pain. A hit to the chest just spices things up," Hancock groans, removing his hat to rub his forehead. "Jesus, Sole. You tryin' to kill us?"  
  
Sole opens their mouth to say something, before noticing the way that Hancock and Danse are situated. And then their mouth closes, and opens, and then Sole turns to Deacon. Deacon shrugs.  
  
"Ask Nick," he says simply. "I'm sure he can explain."


	3. Report For Duty

"You make a fine Minuteman, Danse."  
  
Danse isn't as sure. His response is a half-committal "hmm" as Preston surveys Danse in the uniform. Hat, jacket, button-up, jeans, and boots. All he needs is a laser musket, and he would looks just like any other Minuteman, according to Preston at least.  
  
"I suppose that this makes you my commanding officer?" Danse asks. Preston shakes his head.  
  
"I suppose. But the Minutemen aren't as strict about protocol and the chain of command."  
  
Preston smooths out the wrinkles in the jacket, and Danse feels his heart leap. He hopes that it doesn't show on his face, that Preston can't feel the sudden quickened thumping through his hands on Danse's chest. He's relieved and disappointed all at once when the man steps away, smiling in approval at his handiwork.  
  
"You probably won't be sent out on patrols. The General wouldn't want to risk putting you in a bad situation, but you'll do just fine on guard here."  
  
In this case, "bad situation" is just another way of saying "fight with a Brotherhood patrol." Danse doesn't think he can ever point his gun at a Brotherhood member. He'd rather die. Then again, there's not a whole lot that says when he's in a constant mental state where he wouldn't exactly try too hard to struggle if a deathclaw came along and attempted to eat him.  
  
But.  
  
Maybe he can change that. He doesn't enjoy living every day like this. He does want to live, actually, no matter how much his brain interprets danger as a blessing rather than a problem. It's the reason why he agreed to joining the Minutemen in the first place. Perhaps finding a purpose again will help him.  
  
"You okay?" Preston asks. Danse's thinking must have shown on his face, because Preston has that concerned look again.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Danse, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to. You know that, right?"  
  
Preston's hand goes to Danse's shoulder, a comforting warmth radiating even through the layers of the jacket and shirt.  
  
"I know. I want to do this. I... I think I need to," Danse says. "To have structure in my life. I believe this will help."  
  
He's a soldier, through and through. The Minutemen aren't the same as the Brotherhood, but it's as close as he's going to get. Especially with a leader like Sole, everything is fairly flexible and nothing is ever set in stone. But this will work.  
  
He needs it to work.  
  
"Danse?"  
  
He's snapped out of his thoughts by Preston's voice, blinking in bewilderment for a moment.  
  
"If you ever need anything, you know that you can ask me, right?"  
  
"I-"  
  
Danse's face feels hot. Preston is watching him, eyes full of concern.  
  
"Yes, I know," he answers finally, before his brain stops working altogether from the intensity of Preston's gaze.


	4. Makes Three

The hushed voices make Danse nervous, before he recognizes them as Hancock and Nick's; they're not exactly in a private place, but it's isolated enough and their voices are low enough to keep from being overheard. Danse stops, too far away to clearly discern their words, and wonders whether or not he should warn them to move to a more secluded place, or move on and pretend like he hasn't noticed a thing.  
  
"...'course I'll help."  
  
He decides that he should leave them be. If someone happens on them, that's their fault for choosing to talk outside. And yet...  
  
"...idea of where it is. Nothing exact..."  
  
"...than nothing..."  
  
Clearly, this is a private conversation. Danse sighs, before realizing that he's been a bit too loud; the voices rather abruptly stop.  
  
"...Danse?"  
  
Shit.  
  
"I can't believe I didn't hear you stomping around," Hancock calls out, mirth coloring his voice. "Damn. Maybe I am losing my edge."  
  
"How much did you hear?" Nick asks. He has to raise his voice a bit, as Danse still hasn't moved from his spot.  
  
"Almost nothing," he replies. It's truthful. He still has no idea what they were talking about, or why it has to be private.  
  
"Come over here, will you?"  
  
He's obeying the request before he realizes it, immediately walking toward the corner. As expected, Nick and Hancock are there, Hancock leaning against the wall in a way that makes his height difference with Nick all the more prominent.  
  
"You want his help too?" Hancock asks Nick, glancing at Danse. Nick nods.  
  
"I can't ask Sole to help me on this," Nick replies. "They're busy enough as-is. And as much confidence as I have in you, John, I don't think that the two of us can get through if there's trouble."  
  
"Fair enough. Can't think of a better tank myself."  
  
Hancock grins at Danse to show that he means it affectionately.  
  
"If you're taking me somewhere, either the General or Preston needs to be alerted. I am a Minuteman now. I have duties."  
  
"I'll ask Preston," Nick says, lighting a cigarette. "If he says no, Cait or Strong would work just fine, but I'd prefer your help."  
  
Nick's eyes don't reflect emotion the way organic ones do, yet the way they flicker briefly seems to betray a hint of something hidden. Danse blinks.  
  
"I'd like to at least know what it is I'm agreeing to."  
  
"Right."  
  
Nick explains to Danse his concerns over what had ultimately happened to the original Nick Valentine. He'd tracked down Eddie Winters, thinking it would bring him a measure of peace, but the uncertainty of the original Valentine's fate still plagued him. Killing Jenny's killer had settled one concern, but there are still others from Valentine's memories that Nick is having trouble reconciling with himself.  
  
"I don't know if this will do me any good. I might be like killing Winters. It might not. I won't know unless I try."  
  
Hancock moves so that he's now hanging off of Nick's shoulder. He seems to already be invested a hundred percent in the plan.  
  
"What good will I be?" Danse asks.  
  
"You're better at handling heavy weaponry than John and me. Just in case we need to clear about a bunch of ferals, I'd rather not get swarmed."  
  
Crowd control it is, then. Danse can accept that; he's good enough at mowing down enemies, and if that's what Nick needs him for, he'll do it. It's better than patrolling Sanctuary in a useless perpetual circle, although he is thankful for having something to do with the Minutemen.  
  
"When are we leaving?"  
  
"As soon as possible. The station is a bit of a walk, and I still need to actually find it. I'll ask Preston if he can spare you for a bit, we'll head to my office, then we can set out."  
  
"Exciting, isn't it?" Hancock asks, grinning. "You'll get to travel with us."  
  
Danse is about to say that no, there is nothing exciting traveling with Hancock and his endless drug stash, but a sudden thought comes to him that makes him want to kick himself.  
  
"I shouldn't go. If you're spotted by Brotherhood-"  
  
"If they spot me and John, they'll start shooting regardless of your presence. And if you're not in power armor, they won't pay too much attention."  
  
Nick pats Danse on the shoulder as he starts to walk away, probably to go talk to Preston.  
  
"You don't have anything to worry about," he reassures. "You're no danger to us any more than we are to ourselves."

* * *

Preston is somewhat apprehensive when they speak to him; he's not too keen on Danse leaving, but he's also not too keen on Nick and Hancock venturing out without Sole to back them up either. It's more of a general concern for the well-being of his friends.  
  
"Are you sure that the three of you are enough?" he asks, looking from Danse to Hancock to Nick. It's not as if his concern is unwarranted, Danse knows, and he wonders if maybe waiting for Sole or some more help is better.  
  
"It's not too far, at least according to the memories the original Nick had," Nick explains. "If it's too dangerous, we'll pull back and try again when Sole is here."  
  
That's apparently enough to satisfy Preston, because he nods slowly and turns to Danse.  
  
"I'll let the General know you're going to be gone. Be careful out there, Danse," he says, and Danse nods wordlessly a little bit too quickly.  
  
"Good luck, Nick. And you both bring Danse back in one piece, am I clear?"  
  
Hancock lazily salutes Preston, while Nick takes a slightly more serious approach and nods in assent.  
  
"We won't take any unnecessary risks," Nick promises.


	5. Hazard Without Pay, Pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an eye injury and a very vague reference to suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

To be fair, Nick had been the one to promise not to make any unnecessary risks; he hadn't specified that Danse wouldn't be making them too. In this case, one must rely heavily on the use of "we" being rather vague, and thus applicable only to Nick and Hancock.  
  
Neither Nick nor Hancock are happy with Danse's liberal interpretation.  
  
"Get back here!" Nick hisses, grabbing Danse by the scruff of his collar and yanking him away as a glowing feral ghoul swipes at him with a screech. He had been about to shoot it in the throat with his rifle when suddenly he's being dragged away, tripping over his own feet as Nick hauls him away behind cover.  
  
"I'm not taking you back to Preston glowing and sick!" he snaps as the feral ghoul closes in on them, a few weaker ones trailing behind it following their leader.  
  
"Everything was under control!" he snarls back, ducking out of cover for a moment to shoot at the ghouls' legs to slow them down. At least two of the shambling creatures are knocked to the ground from their injuries, although the glowing one raises its arms and shouts.  
  
"Get back!"  
  
The outward flush of radiation is harmless to Nick and actually beneficial for Hancock, but they have no idea how it might affect Danse. It can't possibly be healthy for the organic parts of him; Hancock scrambles to drag Danse away from the fight and the incoming wave of radiation.  
  
"I'm a synth!" he tries to argue, but has to relent because Nick and Hancock are both making a break for it and he can't possibly fight off the ghouls without them. He settles for turning and firing off a few shots in the direction of the following ghouls occasionally as they shove their way through broken doors and vault over fallen debris and overturned desks.  
  
Danse is completely out of his element here; he has no reliable understanding of the building beyond what he can extrapolate based on prior experience navigating pre-War police stations. But that isn't aiding him in this case, not when he's supposed to be following Nick's lead and Nick's memories of the place are nebulous and not exactly his own. And with retreating being the first priority over searching for the right room, they have little hope for finding their way back to where they had been before.  
  
The glowing one closes in as its brethren crawl after it; Nick jumps over a fallen filing cabinet, Hancock runs around it, and Danse shouts as his shoulder collides with it when the glowing one grabs his leg and sends him tumbling to the floor.

He kicks at it to get it off of him, but it's undeterred and grabs at his foot instead. Danse fires off several shots, but with the ghoul's grip on him, his rising panic, and such close quarters it's hard to keep his aim true.  
  
"DANSE! DON'T MOVE!" he hears Hancock yell as the glowing one attempts to gnaw on his leg. The reason why he would _stop_ moving while a ghoul tries to eat him alive escapes him entirely, and if this had happened six months ago then he would not have listened to the order. But he freezes, leg still mid-kick with the glowing one's nails digging into his greave, and a split second later the ghoul's head snaps back from the force of a knife striking it directly in the eye.  
  
It lets go of Danse's leg as it topples backwards, and Danse collects his wits quickly enough to shoot at the two crawling ghouls that clamber over the glowing one's body before they reach him. He stands up a bit shakily; his leg is uninjured, thankfully, and he leans down to yank the knife from the glowing one's eye socket to return it to its owner.  
  
"Good things happen when you trust me," Hancock says as Danse hands the knife over. Despite the grin on his face, Danse can tell that Hancock is shaken up by the close call as well.  
  
Now that they're not being chased by ferals, they're able to get a handle of where they are. Nick looks up and down the hallway, eyeing the faded signs affixed to the doors, and seems to find what he's looking for.  
  
"We're not in the right place, but I think I know how to get to where we need to go from here," he says. He pushes open one of the doors, revealing a room full of metal shelves stuffed with boxes. "This is all evidence. Personnel records are on the opposite side of the building, but they should be on this floor."  
  
"Evidence, huh? Anything helpful we might find in here? Or maybe more supplies?" Hancock asks.  
  
"Possibly, but now isn't the time to be looking through murder weapons for ammunition, John."  
  
It's not exactly the most practical way of thinking, but Danse has to admit that he has his hang-ups too about rifling through items used to harm people and repurposing them for his own use. Apparently it's enough to deter Hancock as well, as he shrugs and steps away.  
  
Danse looks over the boxes; each one contains the evidence collected of a crime. Knives, pistols, bloody scraps of cloth. Maybe bullet casings, or stolen jewelry. Rows and rows of incidents, now lost to time. The people involved are all gone, too. There's nobody left to find who the killers and the robbers were. Danse wonders how many restless spirits that might be, waiting forever to have their deaths put right.  
  
He's starting to sound like Sole, thinking like this. That's the kind of thing Sole ponders, digging through the notes left behind by the dead for no reason other than to find out what had happened. Sometimes they lead to closure, other times not. It seems so pointless to do it for someone who never will know that someone had cared enough to try to piece together their death.  
  
Would anyone do that for him? He certainly would do it for the people he cares about, but care goes both ways and just because he would means nothing of whether they would for him. Would anyone care enough about him to try and find him if he disappeared? Would anyone follow a trail to find who or what had killed him, should it come to that? Sole might, after all of the effort they'd put into keeping him alive there would at least be a sense of anger at all of their effort wasted. Maybe Preston would out of concern for losing a Minuteman under his command. Maybe Hancock and Nick? Hancock had clearly cared enough about his survival earlier, so perhaps he would care to know what had become of him. And Nick is a detective, and naturally he would want to know as well. Would he be a restless spirit too, like the ones that Sole spoke of? Probably not, he thinks, not when he's a synth, not when he's not human or ever was.  
  
"Hey, you okay partner?" Nick asks, startling him out of his musing. Danse turns, a bit wide-eyed, before realizing who it is who he's speaking to.  
  
"Yes, I apologize."  
  
Nick studies him for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but says nothing.

* * *

 

"So it seems like the original Nick was just stubborn as hell."  
  
Crowding around a terminal like this is less than ideal, and Danse wonders if Nick even wants for him and Hancock to see what he's found, but he hasn't been told to back off. Hancock leans against Nick's shoulder, a frown set against his mouth and the canister of jet in his hand almost forgotten in the excitement of new information. Danse's attention shifts to that instead, watching as the fumes curl out of the inhaler and dissipate into the air, and he misses the first few words of Nick's next statement.  
  
"...only once. They were supposed to keep doing scans on him to monitor his mental state. Guess he didn't like the scientists very much."  
  
"I don't think I'd like having people scan my brain too while I was grieving," Hancock mutters.  
  
"Well, that explains why all of his memories stop there," Nick sighs. "It wasn't that the procedure killed him. He just never went back to get it done again, like he was supposed to."  
  
"What happened to him?" Danse asks almost too hastily. He's curious to know, even though he knows that the man they're reading about isn't the same as the synth tapping away at the keyboard. And yet hearing about Nick Valentine the human feels almost like hearing about Nick Valentine the synth, despite the fact that Danse knows that the two are not the same.  
  
He's interrupted by a far-off noise of something collapsing; the echoes and source are muffled by the walls and distance, but it's clear enough that something rather large has just fallen. Danse's brain is already in overdrive, his hand going to his rifle before he's consciously aware of it. Possible combatants come to mind; a super mutant, perhaps a Deathclaw? But the sound is suspiciously reminiscent of that of a floor cave-in, from the volume and the noise itself. Perhaps a heavy creature had created too much pressure on the floor and caused the room to collapse into a lower level, but they hadn't encountered anything other than feral ghouls. And exactly what would a feral be doing to cause a floor cave-in, anyway?  
  
"The building isn't secure enough to stay standing," he says, pulling away from Nick and Hancock. "We need to leave immediately."  
  
"Sounded like something caved in," Hancock says, unknowingly supporting Danse's concerns. "I don't like the sound of that."  
  
Nick nods to them, reaching for a holotape that the terminal is ejecting, and the noise comes again. This time it's closer, and Danse considers the possibility of just jumping down out of the third-story window before the entire building comes down around them. He could make it if he was in his power armor, but that leaves the issue of Nick and and Hancock. And the fact that he's not actually in his power armor right now. He's not sure about risking the stairs though, and definitely not the elevator.  
  
He leans against the sill to get a grasp of high how up they are, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass still clinging to the frame. Too high up to land without risking significant injury.  
  
"No jumping out of windows, Jesus Christ."  
  
Hancock's voice snaps Danse out of his thoughts, and suddenly he's being tugged away.  
  
"I get nervous enough watching you climb all over high ledges," he grumbles, and Danse frowns.  
  
"Are you afraid of heights?"  
  
"No, I'm afraid of _you_ being around heights."  
  
Danse doesn't quite understand what Hancock means by that, but no matter, there are more pressing matters to address at the moment; there's more crashing and rumbling, no doubt from further cave-ins caused by the jostling of the first two. The building itself hasn't collapsed entirely yet, so that's a good sign. Maybe it means they have enough to time to get out without resorting to climbing out of the windows.  
  
Nick leads them through a door and almost tumbles into the floor below them. The floor collapse here is old, not one of the new ones that they've been hearing. The faster they get out, the better, and so Nick eases himself down into a sitting position on the ledge left by the door frame, and hops down. Hancock and Danse follow suit, careful not to slip on the slope of debris underfoot.

They've wandered into a section of the police station they hadn't cleared out before. Danse doesn't recognize the floor plan in this area, and his concerns turn out to be very much valid when he puts his foot down and a hand immediately clasps around his ankle.  
  
"SHIT!"  
  
Danse grabs at Hancock as he's yanked to the floor; unfortunately, Hancock is much lighter than Danse is and acts rather poorly as an anchor, and the two of them go tumbling with the feral ghoul. Nick spins around just in time to see them hit the tiles, the ghoul attempting to clamber on top of them to eat their eyeballs, or something along those lines.  
  
The ghoul's face is bashed in with the butt of Danse's rifle, a knee-jerk reaction given their close quarters and sudden surprise. It stops clawing at Hancock long enough to bring its hands to its face in pain, and Hancock's knife plunges into its throat; with a twist, there's a sickening gurgle and a spurt of blood, and the ghoul falls backwards in a heap.  
  
"Second feral I've had to stab to save you," Hancock says with a grin. Danse shakes his head.


	6. Hazard Without Pay, Pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a leg injury and the treatment of said injury.

Somehow, the three of them manage to escape severe bodily harm until after they leave the station.

"Danse, holy shit."

Danse ignores Hancock for the moment, trying to get back to his feet. He'd been knocked to the ground in a fight with a few raiders, nothing too serious, but he remembers the back of his head hitting dirt hard enough to make his vision swim and his ears ring. Not hard enough for a concussion, judging from how he feels (and his prior memories of having suffered a concussion, which are unpleasant enough). He aches all over from being smashed in several places by one raider's solid metal bat, and so he ignores the pain as he attempts to get back up. The consequences of letting down one's guard and getting jumped by raiders, one that Danse should have known.

"What the- sit down, stay down!" Hancock hisses, and Danse is about to argue with him when he looks down at his protesting leg. The armor kept his leg from being broken while the raider tried to hit him while he was down, but the blows were hard enough to leave bruises, probably.

The thing is, bruises don't bleed.

Danse stares at his leg, and it takes him several seconds to comprehend the makeshift machete's blade that has completely stabbed through the meat of his calf.

"...oh."

He'd ignored the pain, believing it to be another heavy bruise from the bat. It didn't hurt the way a broken leg did, so his mind had simply disregarded the pain in his leg because he thought he already knew what was wrong with it.

The handle on the machete is gone, leaving just what appears to be a sharpened lawnmower blade embedded in his leg. It sticks straight through almost like some sort of ridiculous injury from pre-War cartoons that Sole had showed him, and Danse is almost tempted to laugh. But his leg is in serious pain, and he's bleeding, and that blade needs to come out.

Nick has already sprang into action, and has in his hands a few strips of torn cloth meant for bandages, gauze pads, a stimpak, and a bottle of vodka. Holding it all seems to be a bit of a struggle, and he hands off the stimpak and bandages to Hancock before holding the bottle and gauze out for Danse to take.

"Once this comes out, you're going to start bleeding even more," Nick explains. Danse already knows. "I would cut off your jeans to make this easier, but the scissors aren't hardy enough against denm."

"I understand," Danse replies. The alternative is to just wrap his leg over the denim, but that could force the cut ends of his jeans into the wound and cause an infection even with the alcohol.

Nick hands Danse a longer length of bandage, and Danse ties it around his thigh as tightly as he can to cut off the circulation as best as possible. His hands shake slightly, and with the denim in the way it's not really all that well done, but the tourniquet works for now. Hancock offers his hand to Danse wordlessly as Nick judges the best method to remove the machete. He's a little bit concerned that he might crush Hancock's hand, but Hancock seems to understand that when he chuckles at the moment of hesitation before Danse takes his hand.

It's an excruciating few seconds as the blade comes out, and then even more pain as Nick hastily shoves the leg of his jeans up and pours the alcohol over the wounds. Hancock hisses when Danse's fingers grip too tight around his palm, but Danse feels a definite squeeze in return. There's another jab of pain as Nick injects the stimpak, and the discomfort of his flesh attempting to knit. Stimpaks can only do so much though, and with such a deep wound it only works enough to heal the inner parts of the torn muscle, leaving two straight cuts on either side of Danse's calf. Danse presses the gauze pad in his free hand against his inner leg, Nick doing the same on the other side. Blood seeps through it, staining Danse's fingertips red.

With a few wraps of bandages around his leg and the tourniquet removed, they're finished. Not exactly the best field doctoring Danse has ever had, but it's satisfactory enough. He'll be fine, in time.

"Preston is going to murder all of us," Hancock laughs, although it's nervous. "We promised him that we'd bring Danse back in one piece."

"He is in one piece," Nick points out, helping Danse to his feet. "But yeah, I see your point."

"It was my fault for being careless," Danse says. "He shouldn't fault you for something that resulted from my own lack of attention."

"Three pairs of eyes, and not one of us caught those raiders though?" Hancock asks. "Nick promised him that we'd get you back in one piece, and avoid unnecessary risks. We've failed on both accounts."

There's really no winning this argument apparently, because Nick and Hancock are somehow convinced that it's their fault for Danse's injury.

"Your guilt is put to better use helping me walk," Danse grumbles, and Hancock makes a noise of delight.

"Well hey, you do make jokes!"

Danse pointedly makes a very clear show of putting his arm around the synth's shoulders to steady himself while staring straight at Hancock, ignoring the exaggerated pout from the ghoul.

* * *

"...this is your definition of 'unnecessary risks'?"

"This is my fault, not theirs," Danse explains hastily, and shifts his weight to lean less against Nick.

"Hey, you're in just as much trouble as these two are," Preston replies with a raised eyebrow. "Remember what I said about being careful?"

"...yes."

"While I'm glad that all of you are alive and not in any danger of dying at the moment, I can't say I'm all that happy about this."

Preston looks to Nick first, and Nick holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture.

"I know, I'm sorry. Believe me, I don't like this any more than you do."

"Preston, we're sorry," Hancock interrupts. "We got one of your guys hurt. We know. We didn't mean to, and Danse didn't do it on purpose either."

Preston presses his thumb against the bridge of his nose, one knuckle against his forehead as he sighs. Danse shifts again, keeping his weight off of his injured leg.

"Danse, go get Curie to look at that. Make sure it doesn't get infected. You're off duty until Curie clears you, alright?"

"That's not-"

"Danse."

"The General is the only one who-"

"The General is out right now," Preston interrupts. "And as usual, has me in charge for the time being. I don't want you running around while your leg heals."

"I'm not-"

"If you won't listen to me as your commander, will you at least listen to me as your friend?"

That momentarily knocks Danse metaphorically off-kilter. And a little bit literally too, as he loses his balance and ends up pressed against Preston's shoulder to avoid falling on his ass.

"Go see Curie first, then we can argue about whether I should let you on duty," Preston says, his arm wrapped around Danse to keep him from falling over. "Do you need help getting to her?"

"I'm- no, I'll be alright."

Preston gives him a squeeze, almost like a sideways hug.

"You're terrible at lying, Danse," Preston says. "I'll take you to Curie, alright?"

"Carry him bridal style!" Hancock calls as they turn to leave, and Danse has to maneuver a bit to avoid tripping over Preston's feet so that he can shoot Hancock a dirty look.

* * *

"I hope this was an accident."

Danse turns to Preston in confusion, and he feels Preston's arm tighten around his waist just a bit.

"My leg?" Danse asks, hoping for clarification. Preston nods.

"Exactly what happened to cause that?"

"A machete. I didn't realize that I had been injured this badly until after I attempted to stand."

Preston sighs and stops, tugging Danse toward the back wall of the empty workshop. He has Danse lean backwards against it, and turns to face him directly.

"You need to be more careful," Preston says. He looks... sad? Worried? Distraught? Danse can't place the emotion.

"I know. I apologize."

"No, I'm- I don't want you to apologize, Danse. I want you to take better care of yourself. I want you to _care_ about yourself. I know that you're a selfless person, you're used to being in power armor and putting yourself between others and danger. I see how you move _toward_ danger rather than away from it to keep people behind you. But you do it when there isn't anyone there to protect. I've seen you run into gunfire in a fight."

Preston almost seems angry. Danse braces himself against corrugated metal, fingers sliding against the dips in the wall.

"I don't appreciate the insinuation that-"

"I'm not insinuating anything, Danse. I'm not saying this to insult you. I'm concerned."

"Your concern is misplaced," Danse snaps. Why is he suddenly so angry? Where did this rage come from, why does he hate Preston so much now?

"Danse, I'm asking you to be more careful with yourself because if you aren't, you're going to-"

"Die? How am I any different from any other Minuteman in that sense? Why worry for my life? I have a soldier's training. I am far better equipped than the others are at surviving in a fight with an armed enemy."

" ** _Your track record for injuries doesn't support that!_** "

Preston's voice shocks Danse into silence.

Preston doesn't shout at people. He raises his voice in the midst of battle to issue orders over the din of gunfire, he calls out to carry his voice over the distance between himself and his intended conversational focus. His voice is as suited to yelling as a ladle is to stabbing; entirely the wrong use for such a thing, fundamentally improbable to even consider it a possibility.

There is a deep, unsettling wrongness to this situation. It settles inside of Danse as if the sound of Preston's voice had punctured him, like bullets lodged in his lungs, between his ribs, clogging his windpipe. Suffocating him from the inside out.

Preston himself looks as if he's just shot Danse.

He might as well have.

Danse is the first to collect himself. He pushes off from the wall, steadying his feet to ensure that he doesn't end up in a heap on the ground. He doesn't say anything until he's limped over to the corner.

"If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant General," he manages to choke out, before turning away.

* * *

"Preston, you lost your temper at him. You didn't punch him."

"What's the difference?" Preston asks, face buried in his hands.

"One causes physical damage and arguably more emotional harm," Hancock says, tapping his tin of Mentats between Preston's shoulderblades to get him to sit up again. "The other is a natural emotional reaction to stress. You owe him an apology, but you're not a monster for getting upset."

"It's _Danse_. I should know better than to-"

"It's not about knowing better."

"The General wouldn't have snapped at him like that."

"Are you kidding me? You're going to say that they're a better person than you? We're talking about the same person, right? The one who woke us all up with a foghorn after we got drunk? The one who moved the furniture in the common house two inches to the left so that we'd all smack our knees as punishment for messing it up?"

MacCready continues to whittle away at the piece of wood in his hands as he listens to the back-and-forth between Hancock and Preston. At one point his eyes flicker over to Preston, but he says nothing until they've both quieted.

"Give him some space. That's what Lucy and I would do after we'd apologize for a fight," he says, the only thing he's contributed to the entire conversation. He doesn't contribute anything else either, just snuffs out his cigarette as it burns close to the filter and keeps whittling.

"Mac's right. Apologize, give him some time," Hancock says. "It'll be okay."


	7. It's Not The Deadly Radiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a short description of suicidal ideation. The chapter title is a Kate Beaton comic reference, kudos if you get it.

Radiation storms always have the absolute worst timing possible.  
  
Sturges makes a mad dash to pull the siren as Preston sets down his binoculars and half-climbs half-slides down the ladder down from the lookout nest. His coat flaps around his legs from the wind as it begins to pick up, and with one hand on his hat he sprints back toward inner Sanctuary. Already there are people running for the closest buildings, a few in hazmat suits corralling others toward the doors. Preston sees Nick dash past with his hand firmly fisted in the collar of MacCready's coat to drag him to safety. There's no time for Preston himself to get a radiation suit, but he needs to make sure everyone gets to safety. He dry swallows a few pills of Rad-X just in case.  
  
Visibility has fallen dramatically by the time he pushes two teenagers in the direction of Sturges's house. Preston manages to make his way to a door, and he's halfway through the doorway when the first crack of thunder claps above his head. Whoever is inside pulls him in and slams the door shut behind him. A bag of Rad-Away is shoved into his hands, and when Preston looks up he sees Danse.  
  
"You'll need that," Danse says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft.  
  
"Right. Thank you."  
  
If radiation was anything like rain, Preston would have probably soaked the doormat the moment he walked in. He sits down on the couch and presses his thumb against his wrist, looking for a vein, and Danse tapes down the needle once Preston has injected himself. The medication is cold under his skin, and Preston rubs his arm with his free hand to try to warm himself.  
  
"Is anyone else here with us?" Preston asks. Danse looks toward the door nervously, then shakes his head without looking back at Preston. A silent response. That's concerning.  
  
The storm outside lets loose more bursts of lighting, the kind that somehow disperse radiation with every bolt. Preston doesn't understand the science of it, doesn't understand how electricity that the sky releases could possibly send out radiation with it. The General doesn't either, but they were never a scientist. It just is, the General had told him once as the two of them surveyed a radiation storm from the safety of several miles of distance away from said storm, it just is in the same way that brahmin and radstags have two heads or how he and Danse would be a cute cou-  
  
Preston immediately puts an end to that memory. It's no use though; just as quickly, another pops into place, another incident of the General's grinning good-natured ribbing. Danse had been standing with his back to them, and the General had tapped Preston on the shoulder and tilted their head in Danse's direction for no reason other than to make Preston aware of his presence.  
  
And now, Preston is painfully aware of Danse's presence next to him on the couch.  
  
"I apologize if the temperature is uncomfortable," Danse says. The Rad-Away tends to stay more potent for longer when kept cold, another one of those things that Preston doesn't understand the reason behind but accepts it as a truth of how things are. It might feel like it's freezing the veins in his arm, but he'd rather suffer from a little bit of cold than radiation poisoning.  
  
"Nothing I can't handle," Preston replies, and they both fall silent.

The last of the Rad-Away drains from the bag much later, yet the radiation storm rages on outside. This is unusual, and concerning; while the physical damage from wind and lightning is minimal, the constant bursts of radiation from the lightning strikes are a worrying danger. The air has taken on a deeper green tint, visible from the single window by the front door of the building (which Preston now knows is the small shack that the General had built back when Sanctuary had been inhabited by just the remaining Minutemen after Concord).  
  
"I believe we may be forced to stay in shelter overnight."  
  
"Seems like it."  
  
Preston turns to Danse, who is still staring straight ahead. He hasn't moved an inch since he first sat down.  
  
"Danse?"  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant-General?"  
  
Ouch. Danse doesn't use Preston's rank out of spite or anger, but Preston would almost rather be called "Garvey" like when they first met than to have his rank used on him.  
  
"I'm sorry that I snapped at you the other day. No, I didn't snap at you. I yelled at you. I'm sorry that I yelled at you. You didn't deserve that."  
  
Danse's eyes stare straight ahead, then slowly his head tilts down; his eyes settle on his hands folded in his lap.  
  
"You were frustrated with me. I understand."  
  
"No- Danse, listen. It doesn't mean that yelling at you wasn't wrong. I was frustrated, but I still shouldn't have yelled at you. Understandable and acceptable aren't the same thing."  
  
Danse doesn't reply, still looking at his hands. Preston waits to see if he'll respond, and almost gives up on hearing anything else from Danse when he speaks up again.  
  
"I don't want to die."  
  
Preston turns back to Danse. Finally, Danse raises his head and looks Preston in the eye.  
  
"I understand that it doesn't seem that way, with how often I place myself in dangerous situations," he says, and he's quiet for just a moment before he continues. "I don't believe that I would... I would kill myself. And I don't feel as though living is pointless. It has merit. It has meaning. I have difficulty with it, knowing what I am. But there is a... I have no words to explain it. There are moments when I feel that if I was to die, it would not matter so much. But I don't want to feel this way."  
  
There's a very painful familiarity to Danse's words.  
  
"I understand," Preston replies quietly. "I believe you."  
  
He wishes so desperately to tell Danse everything, to tell him exactly how much he understands what Danse is saying. Preston has a word for what Danse doesn't; apathy, so deep that it buries itself in his chest, so strong that it feels sometimes that it alone could make him stop caring enough for his heart to stop.  
  
His heart is doing the exact opposite of stopping at the moment, though. Preston wills himself to calm down. _Give him some space_ echoes in his head in MacCready's voice at the same time that the General's chirp tells him _ask him if he wants a hug!_ He manages to compromise, and settles instead for putting his hand on Danse's shoulder.  
  
"...I think it's safe to say that this storm will persist for longer," Danse says, and Preston looks out the window. The lightning has abated somewhat, but the green fog hasn't let up and the wind still rattles the glass.  
  
"Looks like we're spending the night here then."  
  
Preston stands to move to the bed, when a thought occurs to him.  
  
This is the first building that the General had built in Sanctuary. It had been built to serve as the lookout's shelter. The lookout tower had been initially set up here, then moved as Sanctuary had physically grown in size and its perimeter had grown. The building had been left as-is as there had been no need to take it down.  
  
Which meant that this shack didn't actually have a bed.  
  
Preston turns around, and to his dismay he realizes that his thought had been correct. The shack has only the couch, a small dining table with one chair, and a fridge. The hot plate on the top of the fridge looks as if it's collected half an inch of dust.  
  
"We've... got a bit of a problem."  
  
"No bed?" Danse asks with a wry smile.  
  
"No bed," Preston laughs. It's at himself as much as at the situation.

No bed, no bedding, and only the couch for the two of them to sleep through the night. The wood floor is cold and terribly uncomfortable. Even on the couch, it's cold enough with the dropping temperature.  
  
"You're not sleeping on the floor," Preston interrupts Danse as he opens his mouth. He knows Danse well enough by now that he'll offer to give Preston the couch.  
  
"This couch is too small for both of us."  
  
"You're not sleeping on the floor. You'll freeze to death."  
  
Maybe Preston is being just a little bit over the top, but he's not letting Danse sleep on the floor. The couch isn't big enough for them both though without ending up smashed right up against each other.  
  
"I guess we're going to have to sleep sitting up," Preston sighs.  
  
That last for all of about five minutes; the couch is already uncomfortable enough as-is, and sleeping while sitting up proves to be impossible. Preston rubs his face, thankful that the darkness hides the blush on his face.  
  
"Apologies," Danse mutters as he tries to turn sideways to keep himself from rolling off the edge of the sofa. Preston has his back squished against the sofa back, trying to give Danse more space, but it's ultimately useless considering the difference in size between them.  
  
"Danse, do you want to switch?"  
  
"I would crowd you off of the bed if we did so."  
  
"If you roll off, you're going to fall on your face."  
  
"You would be more likely to roll off of the edge."  
  
"...you're making a joke about me being skinnier than you?"  
  
Danse chuckles.  
  
"Goodnight, Preston."


	8. Red, Like Blood and Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter! Warning for some description of gore.

Preston can't see.  
  
The smoke is thick in his face, in his eyes, choking him as it floods his lungs. He waves at the air in front of him, coughing, and blindly gropes about for the door. The metal handle burns his palm as it touches, but he doesn't hesitate for a moment to fling the door open. He ignores the pain. He can't be bothered by it right now.  
  
Gunners around him. Sanctuary burning to the ground. Sanctuary? Is that right? Preston turns, and he sees a glimpse of Quincy. He turns again, and Sanctuary blurs past his vision.  
  
Raiders screaming in glee and settlers screaming in terror. Some of them are cut off by gunshots or swinging metal. Crunching bones. Blood gurgling in throats desperately gasping for air. The dirt is muddy. There's no water in sight. Burning flesh and iron taint the air.  
  
There's nobody here. There are so many people around him. Bodies littered all around him, and yet it takes an eternity to get even the barest amount closer to them. He breaks into a sprint, musket at his side, bullets flying all around him. None of them seem to connect. Or does he just not feel them?  
  
His coat is covered in blood, pristine without a scorch or hole.  
  
Amid the bodies and blood and screams, a form lays on the ground in full power armor.  
  
"DANSE!"  
  
He sees Danse, and then he's by the man's side. The power armor frame is missing a leg, a huge pool of blood in its place. Gone, entirely. The breastplate of the armor is shattered.  
  
"Preston?" Danse asks softly. There's blood in his mouth, leaking from between his lips as he speaks.  
  
"I'm sorry, Danse I'm so sorry-"  
  
"I don't want to die," Danse says. His right arm twitches, the metal encasing it crushed almost flat. "Preston, I don't want to die."  
  
"I know, I won't let you die. I promise I won't."  
  
"You promised-" Danse chokes out, and there's a sound that might be a gunshot or an explosion or a lightning strike-  
  
Preston wakes up.  
  
He's immediately glad that he hadn't fallen asleep at the edge of the couch, because from the way he jerks awake he would have ended up on his ass on the floor for sure. He does, unfortunately, end up elbowing Danse in the back as he awakens fully, and that sends Danse pitching forward and almost off of the couch in the process.  
  
"Oof-!"  
  
"Shit!"  
  
Danse catches himself from faceplanting into the floorboards with one hand and slowly pushes himself back up as Preston sits up and places a hand on his chest. Another flash of lightning comes from outside the window, followed by a crack of thunder a few seconds later. It sounds exactly like the gunshot from Preston's dream.  
  
"Are you alright?" Danse asks, sliding off of the couch to give Preston room. Preston is silent for a moment before nodding, his breathing and heart rate coming down to closer to normal.  
  
"Nightmare," he explains, his voice soft. His throat is still tight, making it slightly difficult to breathe. With Danse sitting on the floor now he has enough space to sit up properly, swinging his legs off of the edge of the couch and leaning against the back.  
  
"Preston?"  
  
"I'm alright. Sorry for kicking you off the couch."  
  
"No need to apologize," Danse replies, smiling. Preston scoots over to make space for him so that he can at least sit down. The old cushions sag considerably as Danse settles next to Preston. "Did... did you want to talk about it?"  
  
There's a distinct hesitation in Danse's voice. Preston can't blame him; he's not as good with words as he is with actions, but he's still trying to help. Preston would like to talk about it, actually, but he's not so sure how to bring up the topic without it being difficult. In both the "I dreamed about you dying" way, and Danse's struggle with helping with words.  
  
"I don't know. I think I just need to sit for a while."  
  
Danse nods and settles into the couch a little more comfortably. His eyes close, probably in an attempt to get a little more sleep before they both have to be up. It's hard to tell what time it is, but it's probably past midnight. There's a few more hours until daybreak.  
  
After a long silence, Preston speaks up again.  
  
"Danse?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I'm glad you're here."  
  
There's a soft exhale, and a moment of hesitation.  
  
"I'm glad that you are here as well, Preston."


	9. Confession Time, Here's What I Got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that this chapter kicked my ass big time, it took me so long to write it despite the relative shortness of it. And of course I went with a Hamilton reference this time for the chapter title.
> 
> Warning for mentions of needles and needle usage (in a purely medical context).

"You look like you're five seconds away from a heart attack."  
  
"I don't believe I've ever suffered one, but I suppose that is a good enough approximation," Danse admits, gripping his hands in a futile attempt to get them to stop shaking. He's been trying for a while now to calm himself down enough to stick himself with the syringe already, just get the damn thing over with, it's just one needle. Hancock apparently takes pity on him, because he makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a huff and picks up the syringe from the tray.  
  
"Lemme do it."  
  
"Do you have any idea-"  
  
"Don't insult me, Danse. Perpendicular, straight in, make sure you haven't hit a vein-"  
  
"Alright, alright."  
  
Danse grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying his hardest to keep his leg relaxed. Hancock's thumb rubs into his thigh, muttering something about _that's not what relaxed is, buddy,_ before there's a familiar prick of pain. As much as Danse hates to admit it, Hancock is much faster than he is at this, or at least it feels like it given that Hancock doesn't take ten minutes just psyching himself beforehand.  
  
"Done. You could have asked someone for help if you take this long every single time you do it yourself."  
  
"I would rather do it myself."  
  
"You looked like you'd rather not," Hancock shoots back. "Listen, I'm just saying, unless you really like staring at your leg for half an hour every time, ask for some help."  
  
Danse rubs his face, sighing, and Hancock gives him another one of those looks. For someone with no eyebrows or visible irises, his eyes can be rather expressive.  
  
"You keep trying to do things by yourself when all you need to do is ask for help. Someone is bound to know how."  
  
Hancock takes a seat on the counter, hopping up after a first failed attempt to haul himself onto it.  
  
"Will you help me with something else then, too?" Danse asks.  
  
"Sure, if I can."  
  
There's something unnerving about Hancock sitting on his kitchen counter as if he's supposed to be there, but Danse can't help but admit to himself that there's a strange familiarity to it too. Maybe he's just used to Hancock's casual disregard of the proper use of surfaces. He'd like to think that maybe, it's also waging war against his deep-seated disdain for the ghoul, but that's a thought to unpack another time. Hancock is offering to help, and Danse wants to stay in the mayor's good graces.  
  
"I realize that this is a rather personal question, but how did you and Valentine...?"  
  
Hancock stares at Danse.  
  
"And here I thought you hadn't even noticed," he says, blinking, before his face splits into a grin. Danse frowns.  
  
"I would not call it obvious, but you act as if I've never seen two people in a romantic relationship before."  
  
"I didn't think you'd notice!"  
  
"Again, did you believe I had never seen a couple before in my life? The Brotherhood had plenty of relationships between its members."  
  
"What, no rules against kissing in the hallways?"  
  
Danse rubs his face in pure frustration.  
  
"If you would please get back to my original question-"  
  
"You never finished the question."  
  
"Hancock!"  
  
"Alright alright," the ghoul laughs, getting far too much amusement out of the situation. "What, you wanted to know about me and Nicky? You getting jealous?"  
  
"I wanted to know how that started!" Danse has no desire to know exactly what Hancock had planned on elaborating about.  
  
"...are you trying to ask for pointers?"

* * *

"So, you came to _me_ because John wouldn't stop laughing?"  
  
"The alternative is to ask anyone else and have them create a... big deal out of this."  
  
Nick's face makes a strange movement.  
  
"You didn't want a big deal made out of it, and you went to John?"  
  
"Personal matters are personal matters. Hancock is aware of when he needs to remain discreet."  
  
"Alright, but then why me?"  
  
"Because you treat questions with the severity they deserve."  
  
"I'm not sure where you got that idea, partner, but sure."

Danse sighs.

* * *

 "Hancock and Valentine were wholly unhelpful," Danse mutters, and Preston chuckles.  
  
"I hope they didn't make fun of you," Preston says, putting one hand on Danse's shoulder. Danse sighs and looks sideways at Preston, his fingers curling and opening in a steady rhythm against his leg. They're sitting on an empty crate discarded by the workshop, taking a break from their duties.  
  
"Yes, well, I began with no idea and still continue to have no idea how to go about with this issue," he replies. "That is far more bothersome than being made fun of."  
  
"Uh-huh. Did you think about just trying it anyway?"  
  
"I would make a fool of myself."  
  
"I don't think so. You never told me what you were trying to do, actually. You know that you can tell me anything, right?"  
  
He can, Danse knows, and Preston would never have a negative thought about him for it. But Danse can't bring himself to say so out loud. Or silently. In any way, shape, or form.  
  
Maybe it isn't such a terrible idea. All he needs to know is how Preston feels about him, after all.  
  
"Preston... what do you think of me?"  
  
Preston is silent for a moment, obviously mulling over his thoughts as he finds the right words to answer. Danse finds himself bracing himself for some reason.  
  
"You're a Minuteman under my command. You're my friend. You're someone I care about, and someone who cares about me. A reliable friend with a good knowledge of power armor."  
  
Not quite what Danse had been hoping for. Or maybe it is. It's a start, at least, to be considered a friend.  
  
"Have you ever thought of anyone as more than a friend?" Danse asks.  
  
"Well... yes. I do."  
  
Danse's heart does a series of terrible cartwheels in his chest, followed by his stomach attempting to follow suit.  
  
"I- I see. Have... have you told this person how you feel?"  
  
"No. Is that what you're trying to do?"  
  
"...yes."  
  
Preston chuckles.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm no good at that either."  
  
"Asking you for help then is out of the question?"  
  
"Well, not really, but we'd just be terrible at it together then."  
  
"I don't believe I would mind being terrible at something with you."  
  
What an incredibly stupid thing to say. Danse wants to put his head through the nearest flat surface.  
  
"Do I get to know who you're trying to tell?"  
  
Good lord, Preston does _not_ get to know that information. Or at least not yet. Danse shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to look casual.  
  
"Am I allowed to guess?"  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"Is it Hancock? Or Nick?"  
  
Preston isn't quite right, but he's not exactly wrong, either. But Danse isn't trying to talk to them at the moment, and truthfullly he's not sure if he'll ever be ready to confess to either of them after the hell he'd put them both through.  
  
"No."  
  
This conversation is going nowhere at all. Danse doesn't want to leave without at least telling Preston how he feels, because this secret is starting to eat away at him. But as soon as Preston finds out, then the issue of how Preston feels appears.  
  
One doesn't get to have their cake, and eat it. He's a grown-ass man. He can do this.  
  
"I actually am trying to tell you."  
  
Danse doesn't even look at Preston as he says it. He can't bring himself to. He just stares at the ground, trying his hardest to watch Preston's reaction out of the corner of his eye. He really doesn't deserve Preston's friendship and care, not from someone so kind and welcoming. Regret starts to poke at Danse, for burdening Preston with the knowledge that Danse has feeling for him that Preston can't reciprocate. He shouldn't have said anything.  
  
He really, really shouldn't have said anything.  
  
Preston is still silent, probably out of shock. It's best for Danse to leave before he's rejected.  
  
"If you'll excuse me, Preston," Danse says, and for the second time he finds himself walking away.


	10. Back To Where We Started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually forgot to post this section before posting what is now chapter 11 due to the fact that this was a very short update on the FKM and I wanted to post it as part of a longer chapter. Clearly I am too stupid to do this properly so I'm retroactively posting this update so that everything makes a damn lick of sense.
> 
> This chapter is one big reference to the back-and-forth perspective song from Grease that I don't even know the name of because I only know the song from it playing over the radio constantly at work.

"Okay, no no no, what happened after that?!"  
  
Preston chuckles and pulls his hat off to rub his forehead. Everyone in the circle is completely invested in the story now. Well, maybe except for Ronnie, with that look on her face that says "I'd rather be anywhere but here right now listening to this nonsense, why am I here listening to this nonsense," but she's still sitting here listening to Preston talk anyway. Next to her, the General sits with their chin resting on their hands, a huge grin and an "all according to plan" look plastered on their face. Sturges just stares with complete apt attention.  
  
"Well, he got up..."

* * *

"...and I left."  
  
"Noooooo, you didn't!"  
  
Danse shrugs at the shocked looks he's getting from Piper and Curie.  
  
"I was afraid to hear what he would say," he admits. "Don't look at me like that, Cait."  
  
"You're stupid is what you are," she shoots back. "I'll look at you however I want."  
  
"Okay, so after you stupid-ed yourself away, what happened?"

* * *

"He was probably too embarrassed, or scared that I was going to reject him. I tried to call him back, but he kept walking."  
  
There are a few wide eyes, and one soft "oh no" from the small crowd of listeners.  
  
"I knew he was upset, but if I let him go then he would have avoided me and then I would have never been able to talk to him."  
  
"So, you caught up to him, right? What did you tell him?"  
  
"I may have shouted a little to get his attention, but-"

* * *

"He asked me to come back."  
  
"Let me guess, you kept walking?"  
  
"No. If I continued to walk away, he would have continued to shout, and it would have attracted unwanted attention."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
Danse can't help but feel like the people in front of him would have absolutely been the unwanted attention he's talking about.  
  
"I stopped, and he told me that he wanted to talk. And that I shouldn't run away."  
  
"You've never struck me as the kind of person to run away from problems," Piper muses out loud. "Kind of the opposite, actually. You like charging in."  
  
Danse gives Piper a look.

* * *

Preston pauses for a moment as the General grins at him.  
  
"So, you catch up to him, you get him to stop running, you talk some sense into him?" Ronnie asks, her voice attempting to convey irritation and failing.  
  
"I asked him to hear me out, and I told him that what he told me wasn't very... different from how I felt."

* * *

"Oh my god!"  
  
"Piper, will you stop squeaking-"  
  
"I'll squeak all I want! So he said yes?"  
  
"It's- this isn't- it isn't quite that simple-" Danse begins, and covers his eyes in exasperation. "I haven't- I don't suppose I know very much about- it _has_ been some time since-"

* * *

"And here I thought Danse had always been single?"  
  
Preston looks at Deacon chastisingly; he's not very comfortable with the direction that conversation is going.  
  
"We needed to talk it over. But then wasn't a good time, so I told him to meet me later when we both had time to talk, and some time to calm down."  
  
"And later is... when exactly?" Ronnie asks.  
  
"Hopefully sometime later today."  
  
There's a bit of chatter approaching, what sounds like Piper's voice and Danse's sighing. The circle of people around Preston look up just as Preston sees Danse turn the corner. He's followed by his own little gaggle of curious friends; Piper, Curie, Cait, a few fellow Minutemen, and Dogmeat. The strong sniffing might indicate Dogmeat's interest in whatever is in Danse's back pocket rather than gossip.  
  
Danse turns slightly red; the General's grin gets wider.  
  
"Do you have a moment?" Danse asks, and Preston smiles.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
Everyone in their vicinity appears to have a silent heart attack, given their reactions. Danse pointedly ignores all of them as Preston approaches and tilts his head in the direction of the old shack they'd holed up in during the radstorm earlier that month. It's as good a place as any for some momentary privacy.


	11. A Promising Conclusion/A Troubling Introduction

They had intended to talk for more than three minutes, but kissing is good too.  
  
Preston sighs contentedly as he pulls away, a gentle smile on his face. Danse blushes, looks down at the ground, then glances back up to Preston to gauge his reaction.  
  
"...so. You're... you agree that... you would be open to..."  
  
"A relationship, yeah," Preston finishes for him. Danse's face burns even redder, and he presses his fist against his mouth in an effort to calm down.  
  
"And this isn't... inappropriate, given your rank?"  
  
"Danse, the General's been pushing me in your direction for weeks. If that's not an indication that they don't mind, I don't know what is."  
  
"And everyone else?"  
  
"...didn't you have some Minutemen pestering you earlier to talk to me?"  
  
"Point taken."  
  
The Minutemen are not the Brotherhood, Danse has to remind himself. There are no political squabbles, no grabs for power, no old families against wastelander recruits. The rules that Danse had accepted as a way of life aren't absolutes. He's a part of a rag-tag defense force held together by loyalty. There is no space for inflexible structure here, no place for anything that can't be molded to fit each and every person.  
  
Fitting, really, given who it's General is, the kind of person to bend rules like tin cans.  
  
"Are you okay?" Preston asks, his hand reaching up to cup Danse's cheek. Danse put his hand on top of Preston's, leaning his head in to press his lips to the palm.  
  
"I'm alright. I promise," Danse replies softly, and smiles.  
  
"You're sure? I know that you're still struggling. You don't have to do anything just because you're the one who told me, alright? Nothing wrong with being friends who just happen to like each other as something other than friends."  
  
"I want this."  
  
"That's not the same as being ready."  
  
"I'm- Preston, I promise."  
  
So much concern, as always. Preston leans in to press a quick kiss to Danse's forehead.  
  
"Alright then," he says. "We don't have to rush anything. I mean it."  
  
There's a sudden strange noise from right outside the door, along with several "shh!"s.  
  
"...maybe we should wrap this up, actually," Preston sighs.

* * *

Hancock grins at Danse and refuses to get down from the power armor rack he's somehow climbed to the top of, mostly likely due to thinking that if he does he's liable to get punched in the face for being such an utter shithead. But Danse wouldn't do that. He'd get in trouble, not to mention that he doesn't really want to actually hurt Hancock. Nick is attempting to light his cigarette, his two feet both on the ground the way they should be, next to the rack.  
  
"So about ten little birdies in Minuteman uniform told me that you and Preston had a conversation," Nick says, the lighter finally sparking and flaring. Danse looks at Nick, glares a little at Hancock, and sighs.  
  
"I don't listen in on conversations," Hancock adds, at the look he gets from Danse. "But I _did_ just pop a few Mentats, and I would say you look a little happier."  
  
"We spoke about- nevermind that. Hancock, come down. I had a question to ask."  
  
Climbing down would be the safer route, but Hancock chooses to just jump straight down. He sends up a cloud of dirt and sawdust as his boots hit the metal floor, along with a loud resounding _thunk_.  
  
"I'm not all that much smarter from the Mentats," he replies, his way of deflecting as usual.  
  
"I was going to ask you about a comment you made."  
  
"Hmm. I make a lot of comments."  
  
Nick's eyes watch the two of them; Danse gets the feeling that had Nick been in posession of a more human-looking face, his eyebrows would be raised.  
  
"You said that I make you nervous when I stand close to ledges. You pulled me away from a window when all I did was look through it," Danse says, crossing his arms. He's suspicious of the reason why, but he'd rather get confirmation of it from Hancock.  
  
"It isn't an unreasonable concern," Nick butts in before Hancock can respond, almost as if swooping in to save Hancock the need to answer. "You and any sort of danger at all."  
  
Danse really doesn't want to have this conversation again. Explaining to Preston had been stressful enough, much less the entire weight of admitting it in the first place. He doesn't care enough to live. He knows that already. He isn't interested in making anyone else understand, because all anyone ever hears is that he doesn't want to live. It's not the same thing, it truly isn't, but nobody wants to sit still long enough for him to actually explain the difference. Preston did, but Danse suspects that Preston already understood long before Danse had told him.  
  
"This is a pointless conversation, then," Danse answers curtly, and turns to leave. He freezes immediately when he feels a hand clamped around his forearm, not a grip strong enough to keep him in place but he stays very still regardless.  
  
"I don't expect you to fling yourself off every time you see a ledge, but if you happen to lose your footing I don't expect you to grab on, either," Hancock says, his voice a forced sort of level. "You won't make it happen, but if it happens, you'll let it."  
  
Danse doesn't turn back around. He yanks his arm out of Hancock's hand, rubbing the spot where fingers pressed into his jacket as if burned by the contact. He shouldn't be like this. He knows that this is no different than the temper tantrum of a child. This is exactly what it is, a temper tantrum because someone pointed out that he is dangerously apathetic about his own survival.  
  
Why would Hancock and Nick care about his survival, though?  
  
"Don't think that Preston is going to make you magically feel better either."  
  
Now _that_ strikes a nerve with him.  
  
"I am not a leech latching onto others to fix myself!" he snarls, whipping around fast enough to startle Hancock. That isn't what Hancock means, probably, but it feels like judgment all the same. Steel save him, he doesn't deserve Preston. Hancock and Nick don't deserve his childish shouting.  
  
Why is he like this? When did he become so angry?


	12. Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first 3/4 of this chapter and then left it sitting around with no idea how to resolve it, and I didn't find it until just now. Hmm.

Mother _fucker_ , he'd relapsed.

Or at least that's what Danse thinks when he wakes up and sees the bottle sideways on the floor in front of him. As his eyes properly adjust to the light though, he notices that the bottle is still capped. So he'd gotten his hands on the beer somehow, but apparently passed out on the floor before he had a chance to drink it. Why the hell did he have beer anyway? He hates it. Where did he get it from? Everyone knows not to give him alcohol.

His back is stiff from lying on the carpeted floor. Danse blinks once, reaches over to set the beer upright, and then drags himself into a sitting position.

It's morning right now. Probably later in the morning, a little too late to be waking up. For a moment, Danse scans the room and his eyes land on the space underneath his bedframe; it's been long since cleared out of bottles both empty and not. He doesn't want to be seen with the beer in hand if he leaves his room, but he also really doesn't want to hide it. There's also the mystery of how he came to possess it in the first place, which really is the biggest question here.

He can't really remember much of yesterday other than that he'd laid on his bed facedown fighting off a terrible headache. Was that caused by something he'd done? Where did the beer come into play then? It's too many questions. Better to just put the beer back in the fridge where it belongs and forget he'd gotten his hands on it in the first place.

Thankfully there's nobody in the kitchen when he arrives, other than Dogmeat curled up in front of the fridge. His head perks up as he hears Danse approach, and moves himself over a few inches so that Danse can open the fridge door.

"No food for you," Danse says as Dogmeat watches him expectantly. "I won't be swayed by begging."

The bottle goes back with its brethren, and Danse closes the fridge door. It closes a little slowly. Everything goes a little slowly.

He takes a step back, and even that seems to take an eternity for him to successfully do; he turns his head toward the clock to check the time. It feels like wading through mud. At his side, Dogmeat whines and leaves a slow, wet lick against the back of his hand.

Huh.

Danse sits down on the kitchen floor; his legs feel like lead, too heavy to lower himself onto the floor without crashing down. Even the landing feels like it's in suspended time, his knee colliding with the tile a little too roughly as he finally settles onto the floor.

Dogmeat keeps licking his hand, the slow drag of a big wet tongue against his skin. It reminds Danse of the strokes of a brush, applying coat after coat of paint, except Dogmeat is layering nothing on him beyond slobber. Thankfully, dog saliva doesn't require anything beyond water to get off. But Danse makes no move to get back on his feet, his head still feeling a little weighed down and cloudy. Everything around him feels like someone shoved a lot of fuzz into reality. That makes sense, of course.

No, it doesn't. Why is everything so slow?

Danse shakes his head, but that doesn't clear anything; his neck feels like it's turning too slowly to jar himself back to normal. Dogmeat keeps licking his hand, his mind flickering back to registering the sensation as it threatens to float away.

"Oh dear!"

The voice comes from behind him, and Danse looks over his shoulder to see who it is. It sounds a little distorted, but Danse isn't sure if it's supposed to be that way or if his mind is warping his hearing too. There are no footsteps that approach him to indicate that anyone is coming closer, but the voice is getting louder and Danse can hear a consistent thrum.

"Mister Danse, are you quite alright?" Codsworth asks. His three optical sensors swivel to point downward as Danse looks up.

"I'm fine," he says, even though he knows he's not quite fine at the moment.

"Might I ask you to sit elsewhere with Dogmeat, then? The kitchen floors do need to be mopped."

Danse is about to answer in the affirmative and lift himself off the floor, but he stumbles as he attempts to rise; Dogmeat barks at him, the noise bouncing around in his head, and he ends up sideways on the tile somehow in between putting his right knee down and placing his left hand on the floor.

"Oh dear," Codsworth says again, and extends one metal arm out to him to grab. "Is your leg in need of attention? Shall I fetch Miss Curie?"

"No, I don't need-"

Danse manages to get upright properly this time, Dogmeat shoving his head under Danse's palm. He staggers over to the couch and lands a little too roughly on it. Codsworth makes a noise of what sounds like disapproval and says something about dust before hovering over to Danse.

"Would you like me to fetch Lieutenant Garvey?" Codsworth asks, his domed head bobbing into view.

"I'm fine."

"Mopping the kitchen can wait, you know."

"...please go get Preston."

Codsworth is back in less than five minutes with Preston in tow. Immediately he kneels down in front of Danse, reaching out for a moment before hesitating.

"Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Yes," Danse replies. Preston's hand settles on his arm.

"What happened?"

"What did I do yesterday?" Danse asks, his thumb rubbing against the bridge of Dogmeat's snout.

"What do you mean?"

"I woke up with an unopened bottle of beer in my hand. I don't remember what led to that."

Preston doesn't look as alarmed as Danse thought he would be. Instead, he sits down on the couch (sending up his own puff of dust) next to Danse.

"I'm not sure. I didn't see much of you yesterday after we talked," Preston says, holding Danse's free hand in his. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Everything is... slow and fuzzy."

"Like time is moving slower than usual?"

"Yes."

Preston's hand squeezes his.

"Yeah, I undertand."

Danse wonders if he closes his eyes, he'll slip out of his body somehow. Wouldn't that be an experience.

"So I didn't relapse," he says finally, remembering the beer. "I don't know why I had that. I don't believe anyone gave that to me."

"You might remember more later. Don't worry about it right now."

It's almost noon. Danse shouldn't be falling asleep again, but he leans against Preston's shoulder and closes his eyes.


	13. Caught A Case Of The Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse starts sorting out his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this has been dead for like forever but I got three comments on it out of nowhere and I ended up banging out another chapter out of sheer glee
> 
> cheers lads

"Okay, so," Piper begins, her hands clasped in front of her face that's wearing an expression that's making Danse more and more nervous. "Let me get this straight."

"I've never been straight a day in my entire damn-" Danse replies in an attempt to rid some of the tension, although Piper's glare makes him shut up.

"We already know you make jokes, Danse. So, to briefly explain what happened, you... deliberately took a bullet that you probably didn't even need to take."

"Yes."

"Then ran at the raider who shot you, despite bleeding heavily and still being shot at."

"Yes."

"And then attempted to punch out the raider, who was wearing armor that covered his face."

"Yes."

"And then wrestled the raider to the ground, still bleeding, before someone else shot the raider."

"You seem to have a perfect understanding of the situation."

"Danse, I cannot stress this enough," Piper sighs. " _What the fuck_."

There are too many people coming to bother him about this damn incident. Danse is a Minuteman, and Minutemen tend to get shot at when they show up to fight off raiders attacking a settlement. The latest one to be hit had been Graygarden, with raiders descending onto the greenhouse in an attempt to claim it for food. As usual, the Minutemen had been dispatched to help, and Danse had been among them. And Danse had... reacted when one of the raiders caught him in the shoulder. The injury itself wasn't that severe, actually even less so than his leg injury (which he'd just gotten over), but his reaction to being shot had been a bit out of the ordinary for him. Piper is just one of several people who have come to talk to him about this, and Piper has managed to not irritate him as quickly as the others to warrant kicking her out of his room too. Quite frankly, she's the only one who hasn't irritated him yet.

"He _shot_ me!" Danse retorts. "Would you have no reaction to being shot, Piper?"

" _You wrestled an armed raider to the ground with your bare hands_ ," she answers, and then throws her own hands in the air in defeat. "A goddamn- what possessed you to think that was a good idea?"

Well, now she's starting to get irritating too. "I was _angry_."

"You could have shot the guy instead then! Not bare-knuckles fisticuff him into the ground until someone else came along to shoot him!"

"Are you here for a good reason, or do I need to demand that you leave as well?"

Piper crosses her arms and huffs. Danse just stares at her from his spot sitting up in his bed. His shoulder is actually mostly healed up, thanks to a timely stimpak injection, and he's only taking it easy because of the soreness.

"Are you alright? Is everything okay? Because you've been angry at literally everything for the past week, barring Preston," Piper says. "You even yelled at Dogmeat the other day."

"I _apologized_."

"Which is great, but _you yelled at Dogmeat_. Is something pissing you off?"

"You are, at the moment."

"Yeah, more jokes, I get it, you can be funny when you want to be. I'm serious. What's wrong?"

Danse doesn't want to talk about this with Piper either; his attempt at it with Hancock had gone very, very badly. He hasn't apologized for it yet, actually. He really should.

"I... had this discussion, or rather a similar one, with Hancock. And I snapped at him."

"You're not the only one to do that around here."

That's slightly alarming. "Having the discussion, or snapping at him?"

"I mean snapping at him, but I'm sure he's had the same discussion with other people too. I think he tries to get Jun out of the bar kitchen sometimes if Marcy isn't around to do it," Piper says. "But okay, so you had a fight with him. You're upset from that. Is that really all that's bothering you?"

"Piper, may I ask for you input?"

She clearly isn't expecting a request for advice, but Piper doesn't deny him. She nods and crosses her arms, but Danse motions her over toward the bed. He settles on his back and leaves enough room for her next to him, and while she gives him a look she does lie down next to him regardless.

"Why like this?"

"It's... comfortable."

"Won't argue that. So, you want my thoughts? It's a nice change for once."

Danse stares up at the ceiling, and for a moment he feels as if he's back in Rivet City, lying on the mattress with the bottom of the fold-out bed above him that Cutler is giving him advice through. But then he slides back into reality, knowing the metal roof of the house is exactly that.

"I need to apologize to Hancock and Valentine," he says, finally. "But I know that they won't believe that I mean what I say."

"Apologize for arguing?"

"For more fundamental issues."

"Ohhhhh. Apologizing about calling them-"

"You don't need to repeat what I said, I am fully aware of what I called them numerous times."

"So if you remember, then why are you asking me about how to make them believe you? They're not going to."

"I suppose there's no way around this, is there?"

"You're looking for a shortcut that just doesn't exist."

Danse nods. He knew this is what Piper's answer was probably going to be.

"I think I love them," Danse says, and Piper's reaction is remarkably muted as she simply slowly raises her hand to her face and rubs it, then makes a fist and rests it against her mouth.

"Danse-"

"I know."

"-what the fuck-"

"I know."

"-is this why you've been pissed off all week? You're in love with Nick and Hancock after you spent the last few months calling them every nasty word in the book?"

"I think I love them. I don't know. I worry that I'm having difficulty accepting their kindness, and that I'm overreacting because I've expected hostility from them in the wake of... everything."

"Cool. Great. Alright, so... great. So you're sure with Preston, but not with them?"

"Preston is another matter altogether. I've known for much longer how I feel about him. I've noticed, recently, as I've gotten to know Hancock and Valentine, that they remind me of Cutler."

"Cutler?"

"My husband."

"Your _what?_ "


	14. Prognosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST UPDATE GOT A LOT OF COMMENTS HOLY SHIT SO HERE'S ANOTHER CHAPTER THAT I WASN'T INTENDING ON FINISHING FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK
> 
> CHEERS LADS

"My husband," Danse repeats, with slight irritation. He's not sure why Piper is reacting with such shock.

"You're- you're married?" she asks, sounding completely flabbergasted. "Um. Sorry, I don't mean to make this a bigger deal than it is, but... I think it's safe to say that nobody realized. Or knew. Did you tell Preston?"

"The General knows, as does Preston," Danse replies. "I hadn't told anyone else. I'm... well, I don't know. I suppose I should say I _was_ married. I'd prefer not to, though. That implies... a divorce of some sort."

"Was?"

"Cutler died several years ago."

"Oh... hell. I'm sorry, Danse."

Danse drums his fingers on his wrist, closing his eyes.

"I know that I have yet to fully move on from it. And I worry that I project my feelings for Cutler onto Hancock and Valentine, because of their kindness to me where I expected nothing less than hostility, and because I see their resemblances to Cutler. And those resemblances are so intensely a part of their personalities, part of what makes them the Hancock and Valentine that we know."

"How so?" Piper asks. "If- if you don't mind me asking, of course."

Danse opens his eyes again and sighs. He doesn't look at Piper, staring up at the metal roof.

"Cutler was very adamant about keeping a carefree persona about himself. It was part of his personality, but he wanted very much to keep that alive in himself. He was a soldier, yes, but there was more to him than simply being a Brotherhood knight. Off-duty, he was much like Hancock, without the drugs. And when the time called for it, he was deeply analytical and introspective. Much like Valentine, in his way of thinking. Calm, and always considering possibilities. Brotherhood soldiers used to joke that Cutler could find a reason why we shouldn't shoot super mutants, for some dire reason or another that only he could come up with."

"Have you thought that maybe you just... like that in people?"

"I have. I know I do. But... I don't know whether or not I have genuine feelings of love for them. This may pass, with time, as I gain a better grasp on my emotions. And that would not be fair to inflict on Valentine or Hancock."

Piper makes a "hrmph" noise next to him. She's pulling a face, Danse can see from the corner of his eye, and then clasps both hands over her ribs.

"You could explain that to them," she suggests.

"That sounds like an astoundingly poor idea," Danse replies hastily.

"Listen, I'm just throwing out suggestions. I don't know what to do either, big guy."

Danse sighs at the nickname (whether it's one meant to be earnest or ironic he's not sure, because while he's certainly heavier-set than Piper, she has several inches on him in height; perhaps the joke is that it's both), but he won't fault Piper for not having any helpful input. He's going to have to figure this out on his own.

"What did Preston say?"

"What?"

"Like, advice. What did Preston say about it?"

Danse stares at Piper.

"Have you not asked Preston Garvey, your boyfriend, the one person closest to you other than the General, probably, about this?" Piper asks, staring incredulously at Danse.

"I... no."

"Had that not occurred to you to ask him?"

"......no."

"You're... kind of hopeless."

"I suppose I am," Danse replies. He's not sure why he hadn't asked Preston, actually, now that he thinks about it. And yes, it actually wouldn't be a poor decision. Probably. Preston would understand, right?

Not that Danse really has any intention of following through on either of his romantic inclinations toward Hancock or Nick, anyway. Still, he does have the issue of the hole Cutler's loss left in him possibly having some unwanted side effects beyond grief. That is definitely an issue he needs to deal with sooner than later, especially if it's causing him to develop thoughts of romantic attraction to people he knows.

Perhaps Cutler would know what to do.

* * *

" **Hi Saul,** " Cutler's cheerful voice cuts in through the foggy, fuzzy, cloudy outside of the dream. " **What's up?** "

Danse doesn't usually let himself do this. He's been trying to do it a lot less, actually, but ever since he realized that at some point he could control his dreams to a minor extent, just enough to speak his intended mind and not follow along whatever wild chase his dreams felt like taking him on, the idea of using it to talk to Cutler was inescapable. He knows this probably isn't healthy, but sometimes he wants to talk to Cutler. Sometimes Danse needs to remember what Cutler's voice sounded like, or what silly ideas Cutler had, or how much Cutler loved him.

He'd fallen asleep that night after talking to Piper, drifting off with a thought that if he knew he was dreaming, that he'd try to shift it to a conversation with Cutler. If it didn't come, and he woke up the next morning with no memory of a dream, so be it. He would only try that night. But it worked, apparently, his brain amenable to such a dream. So here he is, now, in some state of semi-consciousness in his subconscious, watching Cutler smile at him.

(This isn't a clear-cut image in his head. Everything is still very... vague.)

"I had a question I wanted to ask," Danse says. "About... moving on."

"You **already** started doing that," Cutler replies. " **That nice Minuteman,** Preston."

"Yes, but... I'm worried, Cutler. I don't know my own feelings, and whether I actually feel something romantic for two people I know. I've... treated them badly. And they haven't kicked me while I've been downed, so to speak. They're both a little like you. And..."

"You're scared of **overreacting?** "

"Yes."

" **Pshaw,** " Cutler laughs. " **What's the rush?** "

"What?"

"What's the **rush** in figuring out **how** you feel?" Cutler asks, leaning in closer toward Danse. "Take your time. **Take your time.** "

"I don't have time to be waiting around to get over you," Danse replies, rubbing his face. "This- I know it's because I'm not over you. I never moved on from you. I still can't stop thinking about- about kissing you. Or marrying you. Or shooting you."

"Saul, **buddy** , you kind of **need** to have **time** to **wait** around for this kind of thing. **And,** you do have it."

"What?"

"I was serious about **my earlier question** , bud. Why are you **rushing?** So what if it might be **affecting how you think you feel** about other **people?** You know how to handle it."

"Do I? I have no idea what to do."

"For god's sake, just **give** it the time it needs. You haven't **gotten** over me. It's been a few years, so maybe you just need a few more years. It'll happen. I'm not saying you'll **wake** up **one** day and it's like you never loved me, but you'll get to a point where **you don't break down** every day **because of me**."

"I don't break down every day over you, Cutler."

"Exactly. Got past **step one**."

Danse shakes his head. This isn't really Cutler, he knows. It's his dream, it's his version of Cutler he's ingrained into his mind, and no matter how well he knew Cutler he knows he can't have a copy anywhere near the real Cutler in his mind. That's not how this works. But at the same time, he knows this Cutler is right, that he's rushing himself along some dubious path of "over"-ness that he can't achieve by shoving himself through it.

"I shouldn't try this anymore," he says.

"If **you** think that'll **help** ," Cutler replies. "Hey. **Just in case** I don't see you again-"

**—** Cutler has not seen Danse ever since his death **—**

"-I **wanted** to say-"

**—** Cutler hasn't wanted anything ever since Danse put the bullet in his head **—**

"-I **love** you-"

**—** Cutler hasn't felt anything ever since his breath stopped **—**

"- **so** much."

Danse nods.

"I love you too."

* * *

Morning light breaks. The shatter makes its way into Danse's room through his blinds, and Danse blinks his eyes open.


End file.
